


For Loving an Angel

by small_blue_owl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Branding, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Hell is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_blue_owl/pseuds/small_blue_owl
Summary: Downstairs said they would leave Crowley alone. But it would be a funny world if demons went around trusting each other...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is a lot darker than my others... you have been warned. This is set a few weeks after the world failed to end. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

He thought it was safe. He thought no one would know. He thought he could lie his way out of anything.

He was wrong.

They hadn’t believed him. Of course, he was lying. Obviously. He was a demon; that’s what he did. Of course, they’d found out.

He should have known.

Crowley hated himself for not realizing sooner how much of a mess this was. He had tried to be careful, tried to be subtle, but in the end his love for his angel had drowned out his judgement.

And now here he was.

The walls of the room were dark and cloying and grimy like the rest of Downstairs and there was only a feeble reddish glow coming from somewhere Crowley could not see. He could hear voices, then footsteps. The sound was a sickeningly familiar one, a sort of shuffle of feet in old, dilapidated boots. A figure stepped around the corner.

“Well. Would you look at that,” Hastur sneered, “Look what the cat dragged in.”

A slow malicious smile was spreading over his filthy face like mold. Crowley looked away. This creature stalking towards the chair where he was tied made him sick. Hastur crept forward until he was only inches from the traitor’s face.

“You were put on earth for one reason,” spat Hastur in a voice coated in sandpaper, “and that is to create chaos. To do wrong. To spread hate. Haven’t been doing a lot of that lately, have you?” He smiled with his rotten teeth. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed, Crowley,” continued Hastur, stalking around the chair, predaciously, “You and that _angel,”_ he spat the word like it tasted bad. “You two seem to be spending a lot of time together, care to explain?”

The question hung in the air for several minutes before Crowley said anything.

“You said you would leave us alone,” he replied. His voice was hoarse but not broken. “What happened to that?”

He glanced up at Hastur without raising his head. Golden eyes met black ones and Hastur gave a dry laugh.

“This is Hell. Did you really expect us to keep our word?”

Crowley dropped his eyes again and Hastur chuckled flatly.

“Oh, Crowley. You’re not beginning to trust everything at face value like and angel, are you? So surrounded by good all the time you forgot what bad looks like?” Hastur’s voice was mixed with a mix of sarcasm and disgust. “Well you know you’ll always belong to us, Crowley. Don’t you ever forget it.”

Crowley could feel Hastur’s breath on his ear. He hated his allegiance to Hell. He had never really felt proud of it as the others did. And this filthy creature beside him made it all the more clear.

He didn’t want to belong to Downstairs.

“I don’t belong to you,” he whispered bitterly, eyes fixed to the floor, “I never belonged here. I don’t belong to Heaven. I don’t belong to Hell. I belong with my angel.”

Crowley’s vision started to blur. He blinked several times, willing the tears to stop.

“ _Your_ angel?” echoed Hastur somewhere between disgust and incredulity, “Well.”

He snapped his fingers and Beelzebub strolled through the door. They wore a stone-cold death-stare, but it was what they carried that sent a chill down Crowley’s spine. Hastur reached out and snatched it from them with a smirk. Slowly, he spun it back and forth between his clammy fingers.

Crowley turned his face away. He couldn’t believe it. This was ridiculous. They only did this to the worst of traitors, even Crowley know that. He never thought he’d ever offend enough to deserve this. But he was in love with an angel after all…

“Now we just have to warm it up a little,” mumbled Hastur.

He opened his hand and a spreading frame enveloped it. It was not the cheery sort of flame that keeps you warm. It was a dark, evil flame that Crowley instantly recognized.

Hellfire.

Hastur was using hellfire.

Crowley could feel the intense wave of heat and shuddered.

“Do you know what this is, Crowley?” asked Hastur, spinning the handle back and forth over the wicked coals in his palm.

“Of course I do,” snapped Crowley. “You’re going to brand me with the Leviathan cross. To remind me who I belong to.”

Hastur grinned to himself.

“Look again.”

Crowley looked.

The brand Hastur held was a sigil but most definitely not a Leviathan cross. Crowley was sure he had never seen anything like it before but the longer he looked at it the more a thought pulled at the back of his mind. He felt as though he had seen it somewhere. It wasn’t an ordinary brand, either. It was a thin blade twisted to make the symbol. This was entirely unlike any other brand Crowley had ever seen. His mind was racing. What was Hastur going to do with this? What could possibly be worse than a Leviathan cross? That would have burned for weeks, a constant reminder of who he belonged to. But this was different. This was a foreign symbol and being such, Crowley had no idea what it was or how it would hurt him.

Hastur held the now white-hot brand up to Crowley. “Look familiar?” he sneered, bringing the hot metal so close to Crowley’s face that the latter winced from the heat and turned sharply away, “It’s the holy name of your precious angel,” snarled Hastur with malicious glee, “We’re not branding you as one of us, Crowley. We’re branding you a traitor.”

A sick dread settled over Crowley’s heart.

Not only was this soaked in hellfire, it was a holy sigil.

He knew they wouldn’t just cancel each other out. This would burn for twice as long with twice the amount of pain. Crowley started to panic. What if he didn’t survive? What if Hastur planned to kill him with this? He suddenly felt nauseous. Thinking of that was unbearable. He tried to picture his angel, tried to imagine Aziraphale holding him to calm himself down. But his heart seized up as he realized he might never see his angel again.

Hastur was behind him now, the hellfire brand close to the back of Crowley’s neck. “Let this be a lesson to you, Crowley,” he hissed, pulling a feather from Crowley’s wings on each word for emphasis. Crowley drew in a quick short breath through set teeth. He had bruises and cuts all over from the other demons but so far no one had touched his wings.

Hastur slowly stalked around the chair until he faced Crowley again. “If you renounce the angel, you’ll be spared,” wheedled Hastur in a false, sugary voice, perfected from thousands of years of tempting, “Just tell us where we can find him, Crowley. He is your hereditary enemy after all,” added Hastur with a sick smile.

Crowley looked up. He knew Hastur wouldn’t let the angel live. If enduring this would save his angel, Crowley could bear it.

“Never Hastur,” he spat, glaring defiantly at the solid black eyes, “Never.”

Hastur growled incoherently and pressed the brand over Crowley’s heart. He couldn’t even feel it at first it was so hot. But then the heat set in and it was unbearable. Writhing in pain, Crowley tried to move, overturn the chair, anything to make it stop. Flames curled up towards his face, scorching his chest and shoulders. The brand continued to burn, cutting the name of his angel over his heart. Hastur smiled cynically at his desperate eyes.

“Don’t you ever forget it, Crowley,” he hissed, his black eyes reflecting the dancing flames, “You’re our enemy now.”

And Crowley’s world went dark.

~***~


	2. Chapter 2

Cold.

Something was cold against his cheek.

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open and he glanced about him, trying to figure out where he was. Eventually, he came to the realization that he was lying on the floor of his apartment. Everything was hazy and dream-like. Then the memories flooded his mind all at once; Hastur, the torture, the brand… He gingerly put a hand to his heart. A sharp pain shot through his chest and he caught his breath. This would not heal for a long time if ever and Crowley knew it. He tried to sit up but immediately felt dizzy and found himself too weak to move. His breathing was ragged and his whole body ached. He shut his eyes, wishing for sleep that he knew wouldn’t come.

Something was making noise.

Crowley couldn’t tell what.

His mind was too foggy to process anything clearly. But there was a far-off sound. Slowly, it dawned on him.

Footsteps.

Someone was walking through the apartment.

Someone was there.

Crowley started to feel the fear set in as he strained to hear anything else that might give him a hint as to who it was. But he couldn’t make anything else out. His first thought was Hastur. His heart sank as he realized that Hastur might have come back to torment him further, to drive him to distraction. He tried desperately to move, to get out of plain sight, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that if Hastur was here, it didn’t matter where Crowley hid or what he tried to do. Hastur would find him.

He could hear the steps approaching. Crowley had managed to drag himself into a corner and shut his eyes as a figure appeared in the doorway.

“Please…” the demon whispered, his voice broken, “No more. I know our lot don’t like mercy, but please…” He covered his face with his hands.

“Crowley?”

The voice wasn’t the harsh, bitter one he’d been dreading. This voice was gentle, concerned.

“Crowley, it’s me.”

Aziraphale rushed to the demon huddled in the corner. Crowley could have cried for joy and relief. The angel gently and reverently gathered the demon into his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead, almost in tears. The angel’s touch was so tender, so loving, so different from any other touch he’d ever received.

Crowley hunched his shoulders, hiding the mark over his heart. He could feel it start to smolder as the angel approached. Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he slowly took in the broken demon in his arms. Spreading burns covered Crowley’s neck and shoulders, his back and arms were cut and bruised, and there were feathers missing from his wings. Aziraphale felt the tears rising to his eyes.

“Oh lord, Crowley, what have they done to you?” said the angel horrified. He hated himself for not realizing this would happen. He should have known Downstairs would do this, should have protected his demon, should have…

He was pulled from his thoughts by Crowley suddenly pushing him away.

“No, angel, no,” said Crowley hoarsely. “You…you can’t stay here. They’ll know… they’ll know you’re with me. Angel, they’ll hurt you, they’ll kill you, they’ll make me watch. Angel…” his voice broke “Please.”

Crowley clung to Aziraphale’s hand like he would fall to his death if he let go. He turned sharply away, forcing himself not to cry. He hated to say those words but safety and love rarely aligned themselves and they most certainly didn’t now. He couldn’t risk the angel’s life. Not for his own comfort. But he didn’t want to send the angel away. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to be held in that warm embrace, to be healed and comforted and loved. But Downstairs would find out and send Hastur and then… Crowley tried very hard not to think about it. But he knew Hastur would love nothing more than to torture and kill the being Crowley so deeply loved.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder. The angel hadn’t moved an inch.

“Crowley… I… I can’t leave you. I won’t leave you. You…you need help. You need to be healed. I can’t just…I won’t leave you like this,” he managed to say, all in one breath.

Crowley shrunk away from the angel. “But…they…Downstairs I mean…they’ll…” Crowley stammered, “Angel, I can’t bear to watch them kill you.” The tears that Crowley had been willing back overflowed and he collapsed, leaning against the wall. Aziraphale gently took him in his arms again.

“Shh,” he soothed, “I’ll be alright. I can defend myself.”

The brand throbbed again with Aziraphale so close.

Crowley continued to sob into the angel’s shoulder. “Oh Crowley,” whispered Aziraphale, “I’ll be alright. Just let me heal you. Please.”

Crowley shook his head. “I’ll be fine, angel,” he lied, “’m ok.” He brushed a hand across his face, dragging himself out of Aziraphale’s arms.

But as the demon retreated to the corner again, Aziraphale caught sight of the mark on his chest.

“Oh, god, Crowley. What is that?” asked the angel in horror.

The demon instinctively turned away, hiding the symbol.

“’s nothing, angel. Just a cut is all.”

He couldn’t let the angel see this. The last thing he wanted was Aziraphale blaming himself or all this. But the angel had seen the mark.

“No, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, his face grave, “No it isn’t.”

Aziraphale had only seen it for a moment but it was enough for him to see that it was no ordinary wound. Crowley bit his lip. His chest throbbed where the name of his angel still smoldered. Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder and he flinched at the contact.

“Let me see.”

Aziraphale’s voice was gentle but strong. Very, very slowly, the demon turned to face the angel. The sigil glowed slightly in the low light of the apartment. The edges were black and charred from the hellfire that still burned slowly out from the center of the wound. Crowley looked away, keenly aware of the angel’s eyes gazing in horror at the mark of shame that Hell had branded him with. After some minutes, he cautiously raised his eyes to the angel’s face. Aziraphale wore an expression somewhere between horror and pity.

“That’s…that’s _my_ name,” he whispered faintly.

Crowley dropped his gaze again. “I know.”

“But why is it…” began Aziraphale, “Why does it… burn?”

A tear slid down Crowley’s cheek. “They heated it in hellfire,” he whispered, “Told me I was a traitor to Hell and branded me with your name.”

Crowley still couldn’t bring himself to look up, to see that expression on the angel’s face.

“They what?” gasped the angel, “Crowley, that’s… that might have…” All sorts of horrid possibilities filled his mind. “Crowley… it’s a miracle you survived. Did they intend it to…” Aziraphale’s voice trailed off. He had extended a hand towards the mark but as he did so, flames of hellfire leapt up, the charred edges spreading further. Crowley made a little noise like a kicked puppy. Aziraphale quickly drew his hand away.

Oh.

He knew what Downstairs had done was deadly. The hellfire would continue to burn the demon every time he was near the angel until it had burned him to nothing. Of course, they had intended to. They had given the demon a deadly wound that would burn a bit of him away every time he was close to the being he couldn’t bear to be away from. What else would they have done to punish a demon who loved an angel? Aziraphale’s heart sank.

“Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry,” said the angel, wringing his hands, “This is all because I love--”

“Angel, no.” Crowley cut him off, “Don’t say that. I won’t let you blame yourself for this. You are everything to me. Your love is worth any punishment they give me. I would rather suffer the tortures of hell and be loved by you, my dearest angel than be spared their torture and never know what it is to be loved. Knowing you love me is enough of a salve for any wound I might receive.”

The words hit Aziraphale like a tidal wave. He had no idea that their love meant as much to Crowley as it did to him. He had never known how much Crowley was willing to endure just to be held, to be cherished, to be told that he mattered, to be loved. The demon was literally and figuratively suffering in his name. The thought shook him to the core. He didn’t want Crowley to be in pain, didn’t want him to burn. He still couldn’t shake the weight of guilt that hung over his whole being, whispering in his ear that this was his fault. Tears clouded his blue eyes.

“But…but they’re trying to kill you, Crowley,” he said, his voice impaired by tears, “I won’t…I can’t let them take you from me.”

Slowly, he extended a trembling hand. Crowley felt the brand burn hotter as Aziraphale came nearer. Suddenly he realized what the angel was doing.

“Don’t touch it, angel,” warned Crowley, “It’ll burn you.”

Aziraphale’s hand hovered barely above the sigil. For a moment, Crowley fancied it was glowing. A sharp twinge flashed through the mark and Crowley drew a quick breath. The hellfire flared up almost scathing the angel’s hand. Then it flickered, fading, fading, until it flickered again and stopped smoldering entirely. Slowly, the pain began to recede, and a glorious warmth replaced it. A warmth that Crowley longed for and treasured, a warmth that he only felt in the presence of his angel. When the demon glanced down at his chest, he could see the sigil had been reduced to an intricate white scar. As Aziraphale drew his hand away, Crowley caught it in his own.

“Angel…”

Their eyes met. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. Aziraphale knew what he meant. Thank you. Gently, the angel drew the demon into his arms. Crowley closed his eyes, letting the angelic warmth surround him, knowing Aziraphale was holding him, protecting him. The danger was far from over but in that moment, there in the arms of the angel he loved, Crowley felt safe.

~***~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are much appreciated.  
> (Also, is predaciously a word? I looked it up and I think it is, but the program I write in told me it wasn't so maybe it isn't. Anyway, let me know if I'm going crazy and hallucinating words.)


End file.
